


As the Sapling Bends

by Suzelle



Series: Blades and Bucklers [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Disability, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, F/F, Minor The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, POV Lavellan (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Recovery, Sera is a Good Friend, Sword therapy, Swordfighting, The Inquisitor just really loves all her friends okay, Trauma, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle
Summary: She’d spent the past few months slowly coming to terms with her imminent death, the Anchor worsening to the point that she could barely use the hand and its unbearable heat spread throughout her body. Only Cassandra knew the worst of it, and she took great pains to hide its true extent even from her. Before the Exalted Council, she had written final letters to Cassandra, her Keeper, and Dorian, decently certain some poor soul would stumble upon them after she was gone.But she lived, at least for the time being, and a different sort of grief plagued her while she stumbled through an entirely new existence.Lavellan after Trespasser.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Lavellan/Cassandra Pentaghast, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Series: Blades and Bucklers [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914196
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	As the Sapling Bends

_At least he cauterized the wound_.

The dim, clinical thought punctured through the haze of agony that kept Shohreh kneeling on the ground, staring down at the empty space where the Anchor had been, hot knives stabbing through a now-absent hand. No blood gushed out from below her elbow, muscle and bone hidden by flaps of skin that hung over seared flesh, the acrid stench no different than the smell of Fade magic that had overwhelmed her since arriving at the Winter Palace. Solas always took great pride in his healing, she remembered. He’d consider it a kindness that he severed the arm with care, half the work already done for whichever healer had the misfortune to tend to her.

Enough anger sparked in her at that to bring her stumbling to her feet. Somehow, she staggered back through the Elvhen ruin, the beauty and sweet-smelling breeze only heightening her crushing pain. Burning shocks still pulsed through her body, remnants of the Anchor draining her life, such that she could barely even register the excruciating throb at the stump of her left arm. She paused once or twice to lean on a stone Qunari, shuddering as she did so, and wondered how she had avoided the same fate. Despair enveloped her, enough that she nearly gave up right there and surrendered herself to death, but she had to warn them, she had to tell them what he planned—

Smooth glass passed over her skin as she tripped out of the eluvian, her vision blurred from tears and pain. She could just barely make out Cassandra standing beside Dorian and Iron Bull, but she fumbled toward them, achingly slow, unbalanced by the weightless sensation on her left side.

“I tried,” she choked out, and collapsed into Cassandra’s arms. “I tried to kill him, but he’s _him_ , he destroyed them all, I couldn’t…”

“Sweet Maker,” Cassandra breathed. “Dorian, quickly.”

Dark shapes moved at the edge of Shohreh’s vision, and she heard faint clanging and rustling she couldn’t identify. Slowly Cassandra lowered her to the ground, a bedroll miraculously appearing beneath them. She clutched at Cassandra’s breastplate, reaching with both arms but crying out when only one grasped onto the blood-slick metal. But it didn’t matter, they needed to know, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I tried, but we’ll stop him, I promise, I’ll kill him myself, he won’t end the world—"

“She’s in shock,” Dorian’s voice sounded distant. “Keep her still. ”

“I am not!” Shohreh protested and tried to prop herself up, her remaining arm trembling so much she quickly fell back again. Nausea overtook her and she retched violently, choking on bile, before the air around her grew so very cold. Her teeth chattered as her whole body shook, cracks of green still jumping out at the edge of her vision, her muscles burned from the inside out. The Anchor had done so much damage. “Why would he take it when I’m just going to die anyway...”

“ _Kaffas.”_ A damp, clammy hand closed around her left bicep, and she caught Dorian’s stricken expression, his eyes glinting bright. “No one’s dying today, you damn stubborn elf.” 

A choked sob escaped her in reply, but she let her head fall back, too weary to fight any longer. Dorian’s hands pressed on either side of her face and warm, familiar magic spread through her. Her pain did not ease but she grew less cold, the bitter reality of the past hour settling into something less frenzied. A cold breeze brushed against her face when Dorian’s hands left to hover over her chest, a dim orange glow surrounding them. In the distance, she thought she heard a low moan from Cassandra. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, tears leaking out from the corners of her eyes. “I failed you all, I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s all right, boss.” A massive hand settled over her forehead, and she looked up to see Iron Bull gazed down at her, his features softer than she’d ever known. “You did good. I promise you did good.”

***

She drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure if the ruined landscapes she glimpsed were dreams or another signpost on their journey back through the eluvians. She stirred long enough once to recognize her quarters in Halamshiral, silk sheets enveloping her and swathes of bandages covering her arm. She called for her advisors, her voice a hoarse rasp, but Dorian would not allow more than one person to enter at a time. So Leliana approached her alone, dressed in a white tunic and trousers in place of her Divine robes, and listened while Shohreh told her every detail she could recall of her encounter with Solas. Her old spymaster’s face remained expressionless, eyes only hardening at the end, and she took Shohreh’s hand between both of hers.

“Thank you, Shohreh,” Leliana murmured. “You have given us more than we ever could have hoped for.”

“I hope…I hope it’s enough.” The words proved to be one effort too many, and Shohreh fell back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. Leliana’s hands withdrew, soon replaced by the warm, weathered touch she knew to be Cassandra. Exhaustion became a palpable, physical weight, and Shohreh tried to murmur reassurance to her lover before she drifted back into oblivion.

She next awoke to the sound of muffled shouts behind her door, Cassandra’s dulcet tones the most instantly recognizable. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating bits of dust in the air, and Shohreh carefully pushed herself into a sitting position with her right hand. She took slow, careful stock of her body—her mind felt clear, if groggy from sleep, the various cuts and bruises from her battle with the Qunari healed or on the mend. The stump of her arm pained her in a perfunctory sort of way, the raw ache such an odd replacement for the needle-sharp, excruciating stabs of the Anchor. She felt empty, drained of all her strength, an unbalanced sensation that had as much to do with the Anchor’s loss as anything physical. She imagined it would take some time for her body to knit itself back together after the loss of a three-year-old magical parasite—for how else could she define it? Surely at some point Dorian would explain it to her.

As if on cue, her friend’s furious voice snarled out on the other side of the door. “She’s undergone incredible trauma. We’re not waking her up to put her on display for the Exalted Ass-kissers.”

“They need to see her.” Cullen’s voice. “I’ve left Josephine alone to fight a losing battle in there. If the Inquisitor does not present herself to make a case, then—"

“Then they will deal with it!” Cassandra shouted. “Has she not given enough of herself?”

Shohreh sighed and brought a lightly trembling hand to her forehead. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and carefully stood, satisfied to note that her legs only felt a bit more watery than they did after a hard battle. She made her way to her wardrobe, scowling at the garish red regalia she’d so despaired over when Josephine first showed it to her all those years ago. “The last time,” she murmured, and dressed herself as best she could. Her hair was a mess, she couldn’t tie the sash properly, and her left sleeve fluttered empty as she approached the door. 

“Let me at least ask her. Let her decide herself…” 

“Leave, Cullen,” Cassandra snapped. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“It’s all right, Cassandra,” Shohreh opened the door and stepped out to see three astonished faces, Dorian’s mouth hanging open. Any other time, she’d have laughed and called him a gaping little fish. “Could one of you help me with this? I’m afraid I’m a bit out of sorts.”

Cassandra made a wordless noise of protest while Dorian clutched at his temples. “Bed. Now.” 

“Dorian, please,” Shohreh said quietly. “I’m standing, aren’t I?”

“ _Fasta vass, festis bei umo canavarum._ ” Dorian continued swearing in Tevine, but he ushered Shohreh back into her quarters and took her hair in hand, brushing out the tangles and twisting it into the neat bun that she favored. Cassandra pinned up the left sleeve of her jacket and carefully fastened first the sash, then the belt around her waist. When Dorian finished, they worked together to wrestle on the infernal thigh-high boots, Shohreh dearly wishing she could have worn the simple Dalish leg wraps that went along with her traditional armor. Those, at least, she could handle herself. 

Cassandra stood to face her, her eyebrows drawn together in a mix of relief and fear, and ran her hands along Shohreh’s face, her calloused palms rough against her skin. Her thumb brushed along her cheekbone, and she pressed their foreheads together, holding Shohreh as if she’d never let go.

“You do not have to do this,” she murmured. “Not now, not so soon.”

“I do,” Shohreh replied. “I only have one thing left to say to them.”

Cassandra’s face was still drawn in with fear, but she bowed her head in a nod of acceptance. “I love you. Never more than now.”

Shohreh drew her into a somewhat awkward embrace and kissed her deeply, Cassandra’s touch strengthening her for what lay ahead. “Tell them I’m on my way. I have to go fetch something first.”

***

Anger fueled her walk to the council room, her knuckles taut against her skin when she clutched at the book under her arm. Anger at Solas, anger at the Orlesian and Ferelden ambassadors, anger at all the fucking _shemlen_ in the Orlesian court, who built their palace atop the bones of her ancestors and ground their history to dust. But as always, she could not bring that anger to bear with so many eyes upon her, nor could she stand to disappoint Josephine any more than she had already. She spoke clearly and firmly of how the Inquisition’s time had passed, and her throat closed tight when she thanked the countless men and women who’d sworn themselves to her. Who’d trusted her with their lives and honor, when she had so little she could give them in return.

Afterward, she hid in a secluded stairwell, not wishing to be mothered by Cassandra or Dorian, and she shook quietly against the wall, cold beginning to overtake her again. She’d pushed herself too hard, her arm brimming with pain, the ghost of the Anchor stabbing at an empty hand. Solas’s face swam in her mind, the architect of the road her life had taken the past three years, every joy and every pain. For was that not the power of a god, she thought bitterly, that they might enact their will by whatever means necessary? And now, somehow, they had to find a way to stop him.

“The court will talk of nothing else for weeks.” She looked up to see Josephine standing above her, book still in hand, her face arranged in an amiable ambassador smile. “The Inquisitor shocks the world yet again.”

“I’ve gotten rather good at that, haven’t I.” Shohreh tried to return Josephine’s smile, but her eyes filled with tears instead, her throat closing up as the weight of the past week came crashing down around her. She bit down on her lip to keep a low sob from escaping her, but could not stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

“Oh dear,” Josephine sat beside her on the stairs. “Would you like me to fetch Cassandra? Dorian?”

“No...no, they’re already worried enough about me.” Shohreh wiped at her eyes, a disgusted groan escaping her when she instinctively reached with both arms, and blinked rapidly when Josephine presented her with a handkerchief. “Thank you.”

“It would not kill you to carry one of these around.” Josephine’s mouth turned down in mock reproach, and Shohreh snorted. Between Josephine, Vivienne, and occasionally Solas, she’d received plenty of lectures on the everyday necessities someone of her rank should carry—handkerchiefs, quills when at the war table, basic herbs for emergencies. Her responses ranged from humble contrition to rude gestures, the latter most often directed at Solas when passing through his rotunda. She’d have to consider it differently, knowing now the whole fortress was his…

The thought made her eyes well up again, and she shook her head in frustration. “How well did you know him, Josephine?” 

“Solas? I admit, I never paid him much attention,” Josephine confessed. “Our roles rarely intersected. You and he clashed frequently in the early days, did you not?”

“I hated him,” Shohreh said miserably. “With his stuck-up superiority, having the gall to insult the Dalish for ‘imitating’ history. With no acknowledgement of how we lost that history, how we suffered. Doesn’t matter if he was right, he was a bald, insufferable ass.”

A most undignified chuckle bubbled out of Josephine, and Shohreh smiled.

“If I’d been named Inquisitor before he led us to Skyhold, I probably would have asked him to leave. But I…I grew to trust him. Something shifted, especially after what happened in the Arbor Wilds. He extended his own sort of kindness, and I let my guard down. I let my _fucking_ guard down, ignored every instinct, and now I’ve lost another friend.” She clenched her remaining hand into a fist, memories of Blackwall flashing to drive the knife deeper. “You all linked me to the wrong god. ‘ _Herald of Andraste’_ …more like Herald of Fen’Harel. Destroyer of worlds and the elves’ most condescending tit.” 

Josephine chuckled again, more resigned this time. “You always have had a way with words.”

“It’s all I have now.” She meant it as a joke but her voice turned sour at the words, and she willed herself not to look down at the pinned sleeve of her arm. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do, Josie. I hate him so much. And I’m powerless against him.”

“You are not,” Josephine said quietly. “Do you know what Leliana said, in the early days when Cassandra ranted and raved about your alliance with the mages? ‘Thank the Maker that he sent her to us, and not some apathetic noble’s son or a Templar without mercy.’ Whatever—whoever—brought you here, you forged the Inquisition in your image. Warrior’s heart, mercy’s mind. And that will shape our fight against Solas.”

The lump in her throat grew so great Shohreh feared she would give into weeping if she spoke. She only nodded, her eyes bright, and Josephine squeezed her hand. Footsteps sounded above them and in the outer corridor, but no one seemed to look for them here, and Shohreh spared her companion a sidelong glance. Dark circles ringed her eyes, doubtless from the sleepless nights Shohreh had driven her too with this damned council. Fresh guilt stabbed through her.

“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. You’ve worked yourself to the bone these past weeks, preparing for the council and then fighting for our very soul. All for me to come and tear it down. I didn’t…”

“Do not apologize,” Josephine said, her eyes distant. “I feel as you do. I have, I think, for a long time. It simply took the council to see it.” 

“Still. Sera and I did not exactly make things easier.”

“You never do.” Josephine’s mouth twitched. “Though, I must admit, a part of me wishes you had unleashed your true nature on them today. If only to wipe that smug look off Teagan Guerrin’s face.”

“There are far better ways to do that,” Shohreh said, idly wondering how much trouble she’d get in with King Alistair if she upended a jar of bees on his uncle. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me, would you?”

“I—I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly,” Josephine stammered, though the look on her face very much suggested otherwise. “It goes against the very bounds of propriety, and I have…”

“Josephine. You’re not an ambassador anymore. When else, but now?”

She waggled her eyebrows at Josephine, desperately eager to distract herself into mischief, and Ambassador Montilyet’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Well…all right. Just this once.”

***

They needed to decide what to do about Skyhold. Shohreh and her advisors returned to the fortress as soon as she grew strong enough to travel, accompanied by a surprising number of her old companions. Dorian could not delay his return to Tevinter, and the Bull insisted on traveling with him at least to the border, but the Chargers escorted her back to Skyhold along with Vivienne, Sera, Cole, and Varric, who claimed Kirkwall could do without him another month or two. It meant more to her than she could say, their presence at her side softening the blow when she walked through the gates to behold the place she’d so very recently called home.

She had meant to stay in Skyhold no matter what happened to the Inquisition, to use her powers selfishly, just once, and stake her claim to it forever. It bore so many of her marks—the Dalish banners, the Avvar carvings Thane Sun-Hair had sent to her, the little chalk drawings on the battlements she’d made with Cole. But none of it could now erase knowledge of what Skyhold had been, and who had given it to her. She thought she heard Solas’s quiet steps around every corner, his voice echoing alongside those of the Well when she read in her quarters. One of so many things he had taken from her. 

The issue dogged her each day but seemed the last thing on her advisors’ minds, consumed instead with the logistical problems of disbanding the monstrosity the Inquisition had become. The reality of it overwhelmed her, and for the first time in her life, she chose to focus on her recovery rather than throw herself into the work. She met with Cullen, Josephine, Charter, and Harding for an hour each day, Cassandra watching like a hawk in the corner, ready to swoop down and spirit her off if she appeared too tired or distressed. But there was no need. She had no energy to do more than the bare minimum, conducting some meetings from her bed and sleeping for up to twelve hours a day. Her mind remained heavy with fog, unable to shake bone-deep fatigue, and she began to fear it would never end. Elan took charge of her medical care, Vivienne on hand to advise on any lingering magical issues, but neither could give her any remedy beyond time.

“You spent three years fighting an arcane poison,” Elan said in her usual brisk manner. “Its absence does not undo that harm. Slow improvement is still improvement.”

She spent hours in the garden, the sun warming her face as she dozed or sat through bouts of pain, the sweet smell of flowers her only balm. Cassandra sat with her, joined at times by Varric or Sera, talking of inane, pleasant matters they’d rarely had the luxury of before. When before Cassandra had always been hesitant to display affection in public, now her touch always lingered on Shohreh no matter where they were, their fingers intertwined or a gentle hand upon her arm. They’d both been shaken in their own way by what she lost in the eluvians, but neither spoke of it in such plain terms. Shohreh feared that if she did, she’d break again entirely.

So she fixated on practical matters, in the rare moments her mind cleared, the few things she could not leave to her advisors. But even here, she leaned on Cassandra in a way she never had before. Shohreh’s own strong opinions had always carried the day, so often at odds with her love, but doubt plagued her now at every turn, a part of her still certain she had led them to their current doom.

“We can’t abandon Skyhold fully,” she said one evening, curled up on the well-worn divan, staring into the low-burning hearth. “He will come for it the moment it’s empty. But he may come for it anyway. I can’t put people at that kind of risk.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. They’d had this conversation half a dozen times already. “My love, you do not have to worry of that now.”

“You've said that for a fortnight. No one else seems to give it a second thought, and I’ve been too damn muddled to do a thing about it.” Frustration at her own weakness bled through. Everyone had been so understanding of her convalescence—too understanding, happy to accept delegation of responsibilities that should always have been hers. She now feared this would be how they treated her forever, the invalid who could no longer be trusted with leadership.

A tight, heated knot built in her chest, and she could not look at Cassandra to see whether pity tinged her gaze. 

“Well then, what are your options?” With some surprise, she glanced to Cassandra and saw nothing but practical resolve. “There are plenty here reluctant to leave. They have made this their home, they do not associate it with Solas as you do. Why not let it become a refuge for those who require it?”

“I can’t risk another Haven. They can stay if they wish, but…” Shohreh shook her head. “It’s not defensible from its architect.”

Cassandra’s eyes darkened at the mention of Haven, but she said nothing. Shohreh rested her head on her shoulder, and Cassandra ran her hand along Shohreh’s left arm. She stiffened at first, but the gentle brush of fingertips against her skin unraveled some of the tension within her, and she closed her eyes. 

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” Cassandra said slowly, “but the College of Enchanters could use a better home. They possess a sizable magical defense. Why not reach out to Fiona?”

“Hmm.” There was an idea. Shohreh considered it half a moment longer, then let out a resigned snort. “Vivienne would kill me. And she is one enemy I’d rather not make.”

“Fair, I suppose,” Cassandra answered. “Though I believe she will make her own move. Varric tells me she writes letters daily to her allies.” 

“What, her own Circle?” Shohreh asked in surprise. Cassandra shrugged.

“Do not ask me to read the mind of that woman. But I cannot imagine she’d stay with the College after all that has happened.”

“Hmm.” Shohreh hummed again. An idea planted slowly in her mind, its roots digging in as she fell asleep against Cassandra, settling her enough that dreamlessness blessed her for the first time in days.

***

The heavy fog of fatigue dissipated a bit more each day, and when Shohreh took tea with Vivienne two days later she felt refreshed enough to actually look forward to it. It gave her a chance to practice actual table etiquette with only one arm, rather than her current preferred method of eating everything with her hand like a feral little nug. She could not possibly get away with that in Vivienne’s presence, and their many differences aside, she truly enjoyed her company. She would not find a more loyal friend than in the former First Enchanter.

“I am glad to see you more yourself, darling,” Vivienne spread butter and jam on two biscuits and passed one to her. “Even I have missed hearing your jokes.”

“You say that now,” Shohreh said with a crooked smile. “I’ve been saving them for Varric’s goodbye dinner.”

Vivienne looked mildly pained at that, but her smile reached her eyes when she directed it at Shohreh. “I suppose you have no one left to formally impress.”

“Just the King of Ferelden. And he likes my jokes.” Shohreh reached for the teapot with her right hand and poured carefully, her wrist only briefly trembling before she steadied it. A definite improvement from the week before, she noted with satisfaction. Slowly, she poured for Vivienne as well, and inhaled the steam when she set the pot down. The scent of bergamot brought her back to the days before Corypheus’s fall, when they were all one step from death but everything seemed so much simpler. When, no matter what dangers loomed, she could gather those she loved for a game of Wicked Grace and forget the worst of her troubles.

The muscles along her severed arm twitched in pain, and she took a prolonged sip of tea so Vivienne would not see her wince. There was no forgetting anymore.

“It is strange to see Skyhold so empty,” Vivienne commented, and Shohreh perked up a bit, searching for an opening to broach her proposal. “Soon it will be as if the Inquisition never was. And that is how you deem it best to fight Solas?” 

Disapproving judgment usually accompanied such questions, but this time, Shohreh took it as genuinely frank. “He knows our weaknesses, he knows our strategies. The number of spies he sent in cracked our foundations. My fault, I suppose.” The tea tasted bitter in her mouth. Somehow Vivienne always got her to take stock of her worst choices. “I trusted my people too readily. I assumed, being elves…they’d have no loyalty to Orlais or Ferelden, but they’d have it to me. Foolish.”

“Perhaps.” Vivienne acknowledged with a nod. “The loss of your spymaster did not help matters. But such is the way of things, in any organization of your size. I have faith you will find your own ways to combat that monster.”

“Thank you.” Shohreh flushed at the praise, so rare from Vivienne on such matters as politics. “As a matter of fact, there is one way I’d like your help with.”

Genuine surprise flitted across Vivienne’s face, and Shohreh had to suppress a delighted smile at the achievement. “Anything for you, my dear.”

“You are preparing to break from the College of Enchanters soon, are you not?”

Vivienne smiled in placid denial and took a genteel sip of tea. “My dear, you fall prey to gossip so easily. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Even Cassandra knows, Vivienne. You didn’t return to Skyhold simply to oversee my recovery.”

“I would entrust your care to no one else. But yes, I suppose there is no reason to hide it. The threat of the Qunari has exposed a great many fears among the mages. I find myself in a position to assuage those fears in a way dear Fiona has not. I have tried to tolerate the College of Enchanters these past years, but recent events have made it intolerable. I intend to create a new Circle, one that applies established principles to a modern threat.”

Shohreh nodded. She did not like the development, as invested as Leliana in seeing the College succeed, but she knew better than anyone there was no stopping Vivienne.

If she’d had both arms, she’d have knit them together on top of the table at this point in the proposal, and she stopped a scowl from crossing her face. The little things hurt the most, somehow. “As of right now, I have the best claim to Skyhold. I do not want it, but I cannot leave it open and vulnerable for Solas to take. Neither can I entrust it to those who cannot adequately defend it. Your Circle will need a home.” She looked up to meet Vivienne’s eyes, who once again appeared mildly shocked. “I would offer one to you.”

Vivienne remained silent for quite some time, Shohreh both nervous and deeply pleased she’d managed to catch her so off guard. “The College of Enchanters will be displeased to see you show such favor. And I admit, I am surprised you would not offer it to them.”

“Fiona allowed herself to be manipulated and used by Alexius. I would never trust her with the defense of this fortress.” Guilt wound through Shohreh as she said it, but it proved to be a truth she believed. “But a true knight-enchanter? A trusted friend? I could not pass it to anyone else.”

A warm, slow smile spread across Vivienne’s face, and she bowed her head in acceptance. “I will be redecorating, of course. You’ll be taking these garish Avvar things with you.”

“Of course,” Shohreh smiled. “I’m glad we have an accord, Madame de Fer.”

“My dear Inquisitor, you have learned the Game quite admirably. Or is it Comtesse now? It’s unclear if Viscount Tethras’s appointments are truly official.”

“You can ask him at his dinner.”

Vivienne chuckled and took another sip of tea, her gaze sweeping across the grounds below the balcony. It indeed stood emptier than it ever had, with only a pair of soldiers at the gates and no one coming or going across the path. It occurred to Shohreh that she should give those staff members who stayed a long, paid vacation before handing the keys to Vivienne.

“And you, darling? Where will you go now?”

The question awoke the misery Shohreh tried so hard to keep at bay, the crashing wave that knocked her down and carried her in its churning froth until she washed up on a shore ruined and helpless, with no place to call her own. It should not bother her so deeply—it was very Dalish, after all—but where they lacked permanent homes the Dalish built strength in community, in the roots that tied clans together. Shohreh had often joked the Inquisition was her own clan now, but it became less of a joke as the years went by. And she had just dissolved it.

She tried to keep her face neutral when she answered Vivienne, and did not know how well she succeeded. “I don’t know. Go with Cassandra, I suppose. Though I do not think I could accomplish much among the new Seekers.”

Vivienne took Shohreh’s hand between her own elegant ones, her thumb brushing over the Formari ring she’d given her. “You will always have a home with any one of us, my dear. Know that.”

***

Shohreh was no stranger to grief, or the scars war left that went deeper than anything physical. She’d fallen into a deep, crushing depression in the months after Corypheus’s defeat, victory breaking down the wall that held back the various traumas accumulated over fifteen months. All she’d suffered since stepping foot in the Temple of Sacred Ashes overwhelmed her at once, and she lingered in a deep, dark place for months, a hole not even Cassandra could pull her out of. It took their journey to the Frostback Basin to snap her out of it, the beauty of Cloudcap Lake and the brusque, blunt manner of the Avvar breathing new life into her. But it left her painfully aware of what her work as Inquisitor cost her, and ever since she'd done what she could to keep the darkness at bay. 

This time was different. She’d spent the past few months slowly coming to terms with her imminent death, the Anchor worsening to the point that she could barely use the hand and its stabbing, unbearable heat spread throughout her body. Only Cassandra knew the worst of it, and Shohreh took great pains to hide its true extent even from her. Before the Exalted Council, she had written final letters to Cassandra, her Keeper, and Dorian, decently certain some poor soul would stumble upon them after she was gone. If she died, she figured, at least she could do so having passed down her love to those who mattered most.

But she lived, at least for the time being, and a different sort of grief plagued her while she stumbled through an entirely new existence. She felt unbalanced when she walked, her old clumsiness heightened tenfold, and her right arm tired constantly from overwork. The stump of her arm had healed remarkably well, only aching occasionally. Worse were the phantom pains, the unholy echoes of the Anchor, or the times she still instinctively reached for something with her left hand and jolted her remaining muscles from the strain.

She relied on jokes to make her feel better about the whole thing, using them to acclimate everyone to her arm in the most forthright way possible. She took to wearing sleeveless tunics despite the chill, and used the worn leather strips from her old warrior’s armor to wrap the stump of her arm. Dagna helped her carve out tiny pieces of nevarrite to sew into the strips, and she added charms she’d collected from her travels over the years. Sera gave her a tiny metal bee, Cassandra a blunted shard of steel, Vivienne another gem from her vast collection. She wished she could show it to Dorian, though she smiled at his delighted praise when she told him about it during one of their weekly talks through the message crystal.

But none of it kept her from falling into paralyzing, overwhelming anger when she remembered that the same person who’d given her this second chance at life was the one who’d led her so close to death in the first place, who had caused her so much hurt and thought so little of it. She awoke from nightmares more often than not, the Elvhen ruin seared into her mind alongside flames of the Qunari Saarebas, merging with Corypheus and the ruins of Haven. Cassandra held her when she cried, shaking in the dark, but she could gave up trying to explain the dreams after a time, for they only repeated themselves in an endless, horrifically inane cycle.

She tried to parse through them better in her waking hours, replaying her final conversation with Solas over and over, wondering what she could have said or done differently to dissuade him from his goal. To share his grief for a people lost, but to root him in the time he’d awoken, where history had unwound and cascaded so far through the ages that people couldn’t hope to have a clear picture of the way things had been. They should not be punished for their existence, not when they eked out a living as best they could, just as the elves of long ago. 

Nothing in her imagined conversations persuaded his specter, and her hatred darkened a bit more each time.

“Could add some mustaches and cross-eyed bits,” Sera joined her in the rotunda one day, eyeing the murals critically. “Bring down that high-and-mighty arse.”

“I appreciate it,” Shohreh replied absently. “But that’s not quite the mood I want to strike.”

She contemplated for a moment, walked to where the wolf knelt over a drawn sword, then seized her dagger from her belt and flung it with all her might. Her muscles and aim were pathetic enough that the knife clattered harmlessly off the wall.

“Stab it in the eyes for me, won’t you?” she asked Sera, who stared at her with wide eyes. “ _That’s_ the mood I want to strike.”

Sera picked the knife off the floor and flung it with ease, the dagger embedding itself in the wolf’s head. 

“That’ll do it. Now out of here, Shiny,” she said, eyeing Shohreh with uncharacteristic concern. “This place is doing nothing but creep you out.”

She could not even take her anger out in the fencing ring, her cherished longsword forever inaccessible. She watched Cassandra while she trained, trying not to fall into bitterness, gripped by envy but unable to look away. The only other outlet for her rage was her card games with Varric and the Chargers, who let her curse and shout whenever she lost without batting an eye (and she nearly always lost).

She received multiple letters from Leliana, signed as the Nightingale rather than Divine Victoria, all with words of comfort and assurance for the future. Shohreh could barely bring herself to reply to them but read them almost daily, running her hand over the familiar writing and conjuring her former advisor's light voice in her mind.

 _“I wish nothing but for you to take the time you need,”_ said a letter dated at the end of Firstfall. “ _Find joy again, and tease Cassandra, since I am not there to do it myself. But I have traced several paths to their origins. When you are ready, I am ready. You shall always have my aid, and my friendship.”_

She would be ready soon, she imagined, for Solas had become somewhat of a fixation as her recovery wore on. Josephine delivered the maps and papers from the War Council to her quarters at her behest, and she spent hours poring over them, making lists until her head swam. Cassandra found her one day sitting on the floor, charts and lists spread out in a circle before her, ink covering her hand as she muttered to herself.

“What’s this?”

“Plans,” she answered. “Ideas to get a head start on this whole stopping Solas business. Harding’s offered her help, and Charter as well. Solas knows them far less, if at all. I trust Harding with my life, and Leliana trusts Charter with hers.”

Cassandra took a deep breath and perched on the edge of the divan, stiff and uneasy. “My love, do you think it might be best to…forget Solas, for a time?” 

Shohreh inhaled sharply in surprise, and glanced up at Cassandra. Worry creased her brow, which was not unusual, but Shohreh had taken such care these last weeks to assuage that worry. Irritation filled her now to think those efforts had been for nothing.

“I can’t forget him, Cassandra. I see his presence every day.” She raised the stump of her arm, the charms on her wraps jingling against each other. “Creators, my very _life_ is a reminder of him. I can’t let him destroy anyone else.”

“I do not disagree,” Cassandra said, and stepped around the arrangement of maps with care. “But none of this is going to be solved overnight. And perhaps you would be better served by healing, in mind as well as body. You more than anyone have earned a long rest.”

“I’ve _been_ resting,” Shohreh snapped. “Weeks of it. I’ve been the model patient, haven’t I? Never reckless, never pushed myself beyond my limits, and it’s rendered me fucking _useless_.”

Cassandra stared at her, taken aback, and guilt at her outburst briefly stabbed through Shohreh. “I’m sorry. It’s just…you all have your purposes now. Cullen with his sanctuary, you to rebuild the Seekers, Varric with Kirkwall. This is all I have. And I need a purpose. Otherwise…I don’t know. I’m just here, surrounded by all I’ve lost.”

The infuriating worry crossed Cassandra’s face once more, and she came to sit on the floor across from Shohreh. “Solas cannot be your purpose, my love. Not yet. If all that occupies you is mechanisms and fantasies of revenge—and you know it is revenge—your grief will consume you. You cannot march into battle with a gaping wound.”

“My wounds are healed,” Shohreh said, her throat somehow tighter than her chest, a great band pressing in on the scream she yearned to unleash into the night.

Cassandra gave her a sad, resigned smile, one that pulled back the scar on her cheek so that it flickered in the candlelight. “We both know I am not talking of cuts or broken bones.”

The tears came again, hot and hated, and Shohreh tore the leather wraps off her arm, flinging them across the room with a strangled sob. Cassandra’s arms enveloped her, solid and comforting, and though she resisted at first she fell into her embrace, burying her face in the crook of her shoulder.

“I’m so sick of this,” she muttered. “I’m sick of crying, I’m sick of all this hate, I’m sure you’re sick of your shirts getting wet...”

“A great tragedy, that,” Cassandra said, her voice deadpan. “Woe to me.”

Shohreh chuckled in spite of herself, but then another sob built within her, and she let out a disgusted noise to rival her one of lover’s. “It’s never going to end. And it’s all I have left.”

“Hush,” Cassandra said, her hand gently carding through Shohreh’s hair. “It will pass. And you have so much more. You have choices, and you will have your life, more than you ever did with the Inquisition. You will find joy again, even if you cannot see it now.”

“How do you know?" The words left her in between shuddering breaths. It seemed she would never stop weeping. 

Cassandra did not answer. Instead, she kissed Shohreh's cheek, tears disappearing beneath her lips. Gently she kissed away each tear, her touch light and loving, until she finally brought her lips to Shohreh’s, the taste of salt on her tongue. Intimacy between them had been so fragile since the injury, but Shohreh arched into her arms, parting her lips to deepen the kiss. She pressed close to slip her hand beneath Cassandra’s tunic, her skin smooth beneath her fingers. They stumbled backward together to the bed, rediscovering soft planes and old scars, and any talk of grief or revenge evaporated into the night. 

“One hand still gets the job done,” she said to Sera the next morning, who smirked while Varric choked on his coffee and shuddered.

“Andraste’s ass, Big Guy, I don’t need that picture.” 

“Your love stories need more variety,” she said matter-of-factly, causing Sera to snigger into her oatmeal. “I’m just giving you some ideas.”

***

Slowly, her friends departed from Skyhold for the last time, and she tried not to let it add to her melancholy. The Chargers left to regroup with Iron Bull, extra fond embraces from Krem and Dalish before they set out on the road, and Varric returned to Kirkwall with a reminder to Shohreh that an estate waited for her there. Cullen made preparations to leave for his new mabari sanct— _Templar_ , she reminded herself, it was a Templar sanctuary—in the Bannorn, the lands a special dispensation from Divine Victoria herself. Cole ventured out into the world, taking Maryden with him, an inscrutable pang stabbing at Shohreh when she watched them together. She’d developed a protective attitude toward the boy over the years (though not a boy anymore, not really), and could not help but feel he deserved better.

Dagna stayed behind, officially to finish up her many outstanding projects, but Shohreh suspected the arcanist’s true motivations had to do with designs for an artificial arm. She patiently sat while an eager Dagna took measurements, chattering excitedly about all the tools and additions she could make, but when she tried out a basic prosthetic she found the experience so unpleasant she refused to continue further. Dagna tried to assure her that an arcanist’s masterwork would be far superior, but Shohreh stood firm, insistent upon refamiliarizing herself with her body without any additions. Cassandra rolled her eyes in despair as she observed the argument, and Shohreh had a sinking suspicion the Seeker’s patience was rapidly wearing thin.

“Will you not at least consider the false arm?” Cassandra asked, after a particularly frustrating evening where Shohreh struggled for a quarter hour to unclasp the buckles along her vest, only to tear the damned thing off and threw it across the room in a fit of rage. “Dagna can give you a masterwork, and she will not be here much longer.”

“No.” Shohreh said through gritted teeth. “I will be as I am.”

“Shohreh, your stubbornness does not serve you here.” Cassandra went to pick up the vest that lay in a heap on the floor, folding it carefully before she placed it back in the wardrobe. “You have tools at your disposal, and you are only making life more difficult for yourself by refusing them.”

 _And more difficult for you?_ Shohreh thought venomously, but she stopped herself before the words left her. Her recent tendency to lash out was not fair, not when Cassandra had supported her without question these past weeks, knowing precisely when to help and when to step back and allow Shohreh to sort through a task herself. But she could not explain it, just as she could not explain so much of what plagued her lately, whether her enmity towards Solas or her moodiness or her falsely cheerful replies to Leliana.

“It will cause as many problems as it solves,” she finally said. “Adjusting to the weight, any pain that might flare—I can’t face another set of complications now.”

Cassandra let it drop, but she still looked troubled. “Think about it, won’t you?”

Shohreh thought about it, laying awake and despondent in the dark, and decided the solution lay not in augmentation but in readjusting to her body the old way: through blunt practicality.

***

Some time before Halamshiral, she’d asked Cullen to train her to use a one-handed blade, to serve her on the days her left hand hurt so much she could not grip a longsword. She’d asked him not to pry or advertise their training sessions, and he’d proven a worthy recipient of her trust. They simply met each evening on the battlements after dark, where the seclusion and torchlight allowed her to practice unhindered. She’d become moderately proficient as the months went by—never as deadly as with a two-handed blade, but enough that she could hold her own in sparring matches against him by the time they left for the Exalted Council.

Now, nearly two months had passed since she’d gripped a weapon of any kind, and she yearned to resume training, increasing her walks up and down the battlements to regain some fraction of her lost stamina. She had few illusions about her changed ability; she could no longer charge headlong into battle, her stubborn will and fierce cries pushing her to the front of every skirmish. Indeed, she dearly hoped she would never again have to take another life. But she could relearn how to defend herself, a necessity in so many parts of the world; she could use swordplay to learn more about her changed body and its capabilities. And most important of all, she deeply, _desperately_ needed to hit something. 

Cullen smiled when she came to his office dressed in simple training gear, a linen gambeson held loosely in her arm. “I hoped you’d be ready soon. Where would you like to start?”

She had nothing to hide anymore, so they met in the early morning in the training grounds, the fresh dew damp beneath her feet. Cullen had hemmed the gambeson’s sleeve to fit her arm, and he had two blunted practice blades on the ground before him.

“How are you, physically?” he asked, his arms folded as he looked her over in frank assessment. “What are your limits?”

“I still get tired easily,” she admitted. “And my strength is half of what it was. I’m presuming I’ll be starting at the level of a fresh recruit.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve built in the muscle memory. That will help.” Cullen picked up both swords and handed one to her. “I know something of relearning strength, coming off the lyrium, but I imagine this will be different. I may not know what to advise, at first.”

Indeed, her muscle memory only took her so far, for she’d trained with different weight distribution than what she possessed now. Her lack of balance still plagued her, and Cullen sent her tumbling to the ground with only a light touch. More than once, she found herself planted in the mud by her own tangled feet, but at least she remembered how to fall safely. Cullen had her run cutting drills until sweat ran down her neck in rivulets, soaking her gambeson through, and to her dismay she discovered they’d only been at it half an hour. 

“It’s a start,” she said grudgingly, and saluted Cullen to close out the session. “If you could, ah…not tell Cassandra about this, I’d appreciate it.”

“Tell me what?” A displeased voice echoed behind them. Shohreh groaned and turned to see Cassandra watching them, arms folded tightly across her chest. Cullen let out a noise like a cornered mabari, and she heard him quickly collecting the swords and armor behind her.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, and all but dashed into the barracks. _Coward_ , she thought furiously, but there was no escaping this now. Cassandra glared at her, and she glared right back.

“How, precisely, were you planning to hide this from me?”

“I…hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.”

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise. “What are you thinking, picking up a sword now? Last week you still could barely climb the stairs to our quarters.”

“It’s just practice.” Shohreh tried not to let defensiveness bleed into her voice. “I’m not rushing into anything.”

“I know you, Shohreh. You say that now, and the next thing I know you’ll be running off to the Hinterlands to try and clear that nest of dragonlings.”

“There’s a nest of dragonlings?” she asked eagerly. She was not so reckless she’d run after them herself, but perhaps she could watch from the edges, get out of Skyhold…

“You see!” Cassandra snapped. “I can’t believe you would refuse Dagna’s arm and plow ahead with this. You’re going get yourself hurt and set back weeks of progress.”

Irritation morphed rapidly into anger, and Shohreh clenched her hand into a fist at her side. “Don’t bring up the arm.”

“And why not? It is a simple tool that would save you so much agony, if not for your damned pride—"

“It’s not pride!” Shohreh shouted. “ _Fenedhis_ , why can’t you understand that?”

“Then what is it?” Cassandra flung her hands up in a fury, her voice loud enough that anyone still in the fortress could hear. “Because I cannot keep watching you tear yourself to pieces when a solution is right there.”

“You don’t know it’s a solution. You don’t know a damn thing about it. I’m not—you say I'm tearing myself to pieces, but the arm would just tear me in a different way. I’m not putting myself through any more hurt. I can’t.”

“Do you think you can be the warrior you once were with only one arm? Maker’s breath, I—"

“Stop it,” Shohreh snarled. “I’m an elf and I knocked down Avvar bruisers and Qunari. A deaf lieutenant practically bested Cullen in the last mock tourney. The Bull has one godsdamned eye. Plenty of body types can adapt and prove to be deadly with enough practice. You know this. You _know_ this. So why are you pretending otherwise?”

“Because I almost watched you die!” Cassandra shouted. Shohreh took a step back from the force of her words, shocked into silence.

“I marched with you into the Darvaarad convinced the woman I love would die in front of my eyes. You _were_ dying. The pain in your eyes, every step…” Her voice broke, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do not ask me to do that again, Shohreh. Do not ever ask that of me.” 

Shohreh’s throat grew tight, and she found she could not speak. Her own eyes welled up, and she sat down on the soft ground, unable to stand any longer. The damp ground soaked through her breeches, but she hardly cared, biting down on her lip as Cassandra knelt beside her. 

“I’m sorry,” Shohreh murmured. “We haven’t…talked, about the Darvaarad, have we?”

“No.” Cassandra let out a dry snort and wiped hastily at her eyes. “But talking has never been either of our strong suits.”

And true to form, they sat in silence for several long minutes, the damp ground starting to chill Shohreh. She could not tell if she trembled from the cold or her own nerves, and tried to force herself to stillness when Cassandra finally spoke.

“I love you. I want nothing more than for you to find healing, and to help you do so. But I have been so afraid. I cannot hover over you like a protective mother bear, yet that is all I wish to do.”

“Good thing I have Storvacker,” Shohreh said with a small smile. “She can do the job for you.”

Cassandra shot her a baleful look. “That lump could not protect herself, let alone you. And I…I do have faith you will regain your strength in time. I must trust you to be honest with yourself about your own limitations. But I need you to trust me, too. No secrets. Not between us.”

Shohreh sighed, wiping away a sole tear that fell down her cheek. “I never meant to have any. I’ve been selfish. Truly, I am sorry.”

“I believe losing an arm allows you to be selfish.” Cassandra gave her a wry smile and kissed her forehead. “All I want is for you to be safe. Maybe even happy, someday.”

“Hah,” Shohreh snorted. “Someday.”

Cassandra took Shohreh’s hand between hers, removing the leather glove so she could kiss her now-bruised knuckles. “I…I do not understand your reluctance around the false arm, but I will accept it. And if anyone is going to teach to wield a blade one-handed, I would have it be me. Cullen has absolutely no finesse.”

Shohreh chuckled. “I would be glad to learn from you again, vhenan."

Shohreh cupped her cheek with one hand and kissed her, gentle as she always was after such an argument. Cassandra responded with eagerness, her lips soft and plush against her own, and when they broke apart she looked back down at her own hands, clearly hesitant.

“I..I promise I will not bring up the arm again, after this. But would you be more partial to it if Dagna built in actual tools or weapons? Perhaps a retractable shield.”

Shohreh let out a small squeak of delight. “A retractable _shield?_ Creators, but you’re brilliant. I’d have agreed ages ago if you’d suggested that.”

Cassandra laughed. “You’re incorrigible, my love. You do know that, yes?”

“I do.” Cassandra brought them both to their feet and wrapped her in a warm embrace. Shohreh buried her face in the crook of Cassandra’s shoulder, breathing in her scent, the mix of sweat and pomegranate she’d tried so hard to remember that day in the Elvhen ruins, to hold as a comfort when she met her death. But she had to meet her life, now, and Cassandra, with a steadfast promise.

“I will try, vhenan. For you, I will try.” 

***

_Dorian,_

_I told you this already, and you won’t get this letter for weeks, but I wanted to send you drawings of the prototypes Dagna made me. She’s got two—one for more practical, everyday wear, and then a masterpiece to rival Bianca. That one was Sera’s idea. She thinks it’ll be ideal for the Jennys. Now, before you go on about my terrible aim and “how drunk was Sera when she gave me a crossbow,” keep in mind she’s giving me lessons every day. And Dagna put in a rune to help my targeting, so I won’t accidentally shoot Cassandra’s eye out. Though if I did, then our lovers would match._

_We leave Skyhold next week. It will be strange to go, but I am not sorry to see the back of it. I’m going to spend some time in Stone-Bear Hold for awhile. I’m hoping it will clear my head. Then Kirkwall, then up to the Hunterhorn Mountains to spend the summer with Cassandra. Maybe at Satinalia you might prepare a room in Minrathous for me? Don’t worry if it’s too soon. Likely we’ll have talked of it by the time you get this and this whole paragraph will be moot._

_I miss you._

_Love,  
_ _Shohreh_

***

_To Grand Enchanter Fiona,_

_By now you will have heard of Skyhold’s fate, as well as the new Circle of Magi. I will not ask your forgiveness, only your understanding. There were many practical considerations to take into account, not the least Madame de Fer’s wrath should I spurn her in favor of the College of Enchanters. Furthermore, I imagined that after so long at war you might desire to settle in peace, without the wolf breathing down your neck._

_Please know that my commitment to the College of Enchanters has never been stronger. I have arranged for a considerable financial gift to be bestowed upon the College and donated a great deal of Skyhold’s library as well as the bulk of Helisma’s research materials. The caravan should follow this letter to Val Royeaux. If there is anything I can do to aid you or the College in my capacity as (now former) Inquisitor, please do not hesitate to call on me._

_On a more personal note, I thought you might wish to know that my last formal act as Inquisitor was to officially hand Caer Bronach back to King Alistair in a quite bloviated ceremony (the matter became somewhat of a sticking point at the Exalted Council and I’m afraid I offended Arl Teagan greatly). Alistair has forgiven me for dumping a vat of honey on his uncle, and confessed to find it rather funny. He is not at all like a king—but then, I’m not much like an Inquisitor, so we have that in common. I have a feeling we may have been friends, had our paths crossed differently. I only mention this because of your inquiries after him at Skyhold, and hope it gives you comfort to know a bit more of your friend’s son. I imagine any parent would be proud._

_Fondest regards,  
_ _Shohreh Lavellan_

***

_Dear Hawke,_

_Thanks again for all the advice you gave me when you stopped at Skyhold. The emotional support human thing really came in handy (no pun intended). I’ve now had TWO trusted friends lie and betray me, so I’ve got you beat there too, ha ha. Don’t recommend trying to one-up me._

_I’m staying with Varric in Kirkwall. Sorry to have missed you. He let me use my key on the giant chain nets. Have you SEEN those in action? I’ll have to plan my next visit around your schedule._

_I do have one question. Varric’s introduced me to Aveline and the grumpy grey elf, but any time I ask about Merrill he becomes...shifty. Evasive. Like he doesn’t want me to meet her. You know what’s up there?_

_Your ex-Inquisitor,  
_ _Comtesse of Kirkwall,  
_ _Shohreh Lavellan_

_[final paragraph furiously scratched out]_

_NEVER MIND, I met Merrill. Incidentally, Aveline wants us both arrested. Varric’s working on her, but if you could put in a good word for me when you return, I’d appreciate it. Guard-captains are terrifying._

***

_To Keeper Deshanna Istamaethoriel,_

_I have passed along your thanks personally to Viscount Tethras, and do hope one day you two will meet in person. I believe this new alliance will do wonders for the clan and for Wycome. Please assure my mother that I am not skulking away on the verge of death, despite what the rumors say. I regret I cannot travel to Wycome myself on this visit to the Marches, but I will make the effort when I return south next year._

_I’ve enclosed a note for Amaya—she will know what it means. If certain nobles in Wycome start having trouble, I would ask you to look the other way. The Friends of Red Jenny have some long overdue business in the city that will benefit us all in the long run._

_Please continue to do what you can to spread the truth among our people. I could not bear to lose any of Clan Lavellan to Fen’Harel. There is more to discuss in person, which you can take as a promise I will visit within the year. If it will reassure Mamae, do tell her. I love you, auntie, and I will try to make you proud._

_Dareth shiral,  
_ _Shohreh_

***

_Dear Vivienne,_

_No, you cannot fire Cabot. Well, you can, I will not tell you how to run your Circle, but since you phrased it as a question I’m giving you my answer. Even mages with your self-discipline need to let off steam once in awhile, and the tavern accomplishes that. If he refuses to remodel, put him in touch with Varric, who is currently handling my finances. I still don’t understand money, but I believe I’m just shy of wealthy?_

_I am pleased to hear Skyhold treats you well. Is it gauche to say I almost wish Solas would try and take it from you, just to see you tear down that prissy little wolf? What a sight to imagine._

_Take care,  
_ _Shohreh_

_***_

_Dorian, dearest,_

_I love you deeply, and I’m so happy you enjoyed such a good visit with the Iron Bull. But please, for the love of the Maker and every Creator, remember to turn off the sending crystal if you’re going to get tied up immediately after talking to me. I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s happened twice now. Perhaps next visit it would be better if Cassandra and I joined him?_

_Your most beloved friend,  
_ _Shohreh_

_***_

_Cassandra, my love,_

_I write to you from Nevarra City. How I wish you were here with me. The Grand Necropolis is a sight to behold, but I think now I understand what you mean about its ostentation. Thank you for the letter of introduction to your uncle—he is a strange sort, but received us cordially enough, and it meant a welcome break from roads and lumpy inn beds. The Pentaghast name goes an astonishingly long way in this country. I will have to readjust to more basic travel accommodations when we leave._

_Sera and Dagna have been delightful traveling companions. To my great surprise, your uncle absolutely adored Dagna. They stayed up until dawn one night talking of arcane matters while Sera and I planted some, ah…presents…around the Necropolis. It was good to meet the Jennys here. Sera tried putting feelers out to Tevinter, but it’s too dicey to really gain a foothold yet. Southern Thedas is work enough for us._

_They’ll be turning back once we reach the mountains. Apparently Sera doesn’t want to stick around for “Seeker shit and sexcapades,” which she insisted I repeat in this letter verbatim. I, on the other hand, cannot wait to reach the Hunterhorns, for sexcapades and also just to hold you, to tell you all I can’t put to paper. I have missed you more than I can say._

_I’ll see you in a couple weeks._

_Love,  
_ _Shohreh_

_***_

_Dear Varric,_

_You have got to come up here and teach these Seekers how to play Wicked Grace. I clean them out every night._ Me!! _It was fun at first but now it’s just terribly dull._

_You asked how I’m doing. I thought about lying, because it seemed easiest and I like pretending I’ve got my shit together. But the truth is…I really don’t. I’d been getting better in Kirkwall, but the road here was hard, especially after Sera and Dagna left. I still hate using the arm, and really only do when we’re out hunting. No one seems to understand why. I think you did, which is another reason for the truth, I guess._

_Sorry for the downer. The Seekers aren’t exactly the most uplifting bunch. I’m glad to be with Cassandra, though, and it is beautiful here. I’ve been taking a lot of walks. Imagine the peace that comes from walking for hours with no responsibilities, no demons or magisters, absolutely nothing at all._

_(It’s boring as shit)._

_Cassandra loved your latest book, by the way. I think you’ve let her adoration make you sloppy. If you need an editor for the next manuscript, I’d be happy to help._

_Your favorite Comtesse,  
_ _Shohreh_

_***_

_To The Iron Bull and his Most Esteemed Chargers:_

_Some idiot mage with a grudge against the Seekers enchanted a whole ass pack of wyverns, and now they all have wings. We arrested the mage, but the wyvrens are still prowling around the Hunterhorns like horrifying venomous bats. Cassandra has insisted the Seekers can handle it on their own, but these are tricky buggers, and I would love to hire you for the job. There’s plenty of unoccupied mountains for Rocky to explode, and on the off chance you’ve finally “hired” an “apostate,” they’d be great in helping to lift the enchantments._

_Krem, you still owe me money, so I’m hoping we can arrange some sort of discount._

_From your old Boss_

_***_

_Dear Dorian,_

_Here’s the luggage I said I was sending ahead of time. Cassandra can’t believe we’re bringing more than we can carry on our backs, but my back is somewhat delicate these days, and I want to make sure I look my best in Minrathous. If any of the enclosed outfits are deemed too garish or offensive, feel free to throw them out._

_The black bag is stuff from Bull. I didn’t ask._

_SEE YOU SOON,  
_ _Shohreh_

_***_

_The Inquisitor brings greetings to Most Holy, Divine Victoria,_

_Sorry for the formality. I find it wards off prying eyes, even if it takes longer to get to your desk. I am grateful for the time you’ve given me, and the multiple inquiries to my health. Cassandra can verify I’m doing much better, as well as I will ever be. She’s doing remarkable work here with the Seekers, but I have persuaded her to take that seat on the Exalted Council. You’re welcome._

_A minstrel came through the valley a week ago, one blessedly more talented than Maryden. She delighted us all with a new song about a hart and thrush, which she claimed to have learned in Val Royeaux. Have you heard it? They stumble upon a well-trod sanctuary and the Maker grants them grace. Quite a lovely harmony—I will have to teach it to you sometime, if it has not reached the Sunburst Throne._

_We plan to return to Val Royeaux in the spring; from there, a brief detour to Wycome. Then I believe I will return to Stone-Bear Hold while Cassandra chomps at the bit in your council. I had just started to master climbing with the new arm when I left the last time, and Thane Sun-Hair has more to teach me. Cassandra does not like it when I travel alone, but it is how I’ve found healing this past year, how I have made my way forward. It is good to make my own choices after so long. For now, I choose to sing, tracing the melody wherever I can. You understand, I hope._

_-Shohreh_

_P.S. Please reserve a nug for me in your next litter. I had to leave Storvacker behind in the Basin and I yearn for a more portable traveling companion._

**Author's Note:**

> While I do not share the Inquisitor's specific disability, many of her attitudes and coping mechanisms are extracted from my own experiences as a disabled person, particularly as a disabled swordfighter and particularly around the use of assistive devices. These experiences are far from universal, and I hope I have not stumbled too terribly in their depictions. 
> 
> I suspect this is the final story of this series. Maybe at a later point I will write some missing moments, but for now it feels complete. If you've read this far, thank you for coming along for the ride!


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